


let your crown fall (and hit the floor)

by damnneovelvet



Category: Red Velvet (K-pop Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Dark, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Fear of Death, Friends With Benefits, Magic, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prophecy, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:49:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26524744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damnneovelvet/pseuds/damnneovelvet
Summary: Irene wishes she could look into a mirror. A goddess, she thinks, has the gift of time, of immortality. As long as she lives, every breath draws the looming threat of death closer — scarily, thoughts of oblivion are always circling around the periphery, never too far away — and every moment she remembers the horrors the gods wished upon humanity, she recoils. She is plenty beautiful, it is an undeniable fact, but she is also unsure if the power being placed within her hands will rest safe. She is merely a shadow.
Relationships: Bae Joohyun | Irene/Kang Seulgi, Bae Joohyun | Irene/Son Seungwan | Wendy
Comments: 10
Kudos: 17





	let your crown fall (and hit the floor)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [of lesser evils (and winter flowers)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25308412) by [damnneovelvet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/damnneovelvet/pseuds/damnneovelvet). 



> 1\. I'm using their stage names as default for certain reasons. Not too important to the plot, but it's there.  
> 2\. There is some explicit wenrene in the beginning.  
> 3\. This is a make-believe universe. All inspiration for the setting is based in fiction, hence there are no intentional likenesses with or research into medieval times or actual royalty.  
> 4\. I'm still developing a writing style, so please consider this experimental like most of my other ao3 fics.I'm trying to stick to the British variant of most words but if I slip up I'll edit through it later.  
> 5\. This is a fic :D no characterisation is meant to stick entirely to their idol personae.
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading.

The Queen Mother's word is law.

"The first rule of governance," she says, sombre, but powerful because every sound that leaves her mouth is to be revered like a spell crafted by the gods, "is to keep the benefit of the council before the benefit of these burnt lands."

Irene stands in silence — throat constricting and torso threatening to fall apart under the force of the corset strung onto her — and she understands what her grandmother is saying. She has to. She stands unable to breathe with the pressure on her sides forcing her into shape. With such viciousness, with strings cutting into her back, any woman would forget how to listen.

The lands of Braemunyth are charred from decades of war. The gothic cities that the kingdom once boasted have been reduced to figments of imagination, their only remains being heavy debris and haunted wreckage. All memories of flourishing civilization have been wiped out. The skies turn grey every dawn, the people walk on roads built of ashes, and the cry of a newborn is counted as a victory in villages where lives were stolen fiercely. However, the only coherent form of the legacy her mother left behind are the reins to Braemunyth, and she is an hour away from claiming it as her own forever, burnt or not.

"Your privileges are to remind you of your stature, to always remain paramount." Irene listens as her hair is pulled taut by wizened hands. A handmaid steps closer, the cotton of her heavy skirt sweeping the floor, and presents Irene’s tiara on a velvet cushion with her head dipped low.

"To keep the crown on your head," A little beyond the citadel walls, the citizenry rushes to flock to the gates, "you must learn to bow to those who feed your mouth and walk upon the chests of those who see you as their goddess." 

Irene wishes she could look into a mirror. A goddess, she thinks, has the gift of time, of immortality. As long as she lives, every breath draws the looming threat of death closer — scarily, thoughts of oblivion are always circling around the periphery, never too far away — and every moment she remembers the horrors the gods wished upon humanity, she recoils. She is plenty beautiful, it is an undeniable fact, but she is also unsure if the power being placed within her hands will rest safe. She is merely a shadow.

"You have been a princess all your life yet you have witnessed the horrors of war with your own eyes. You can no longer be coddled in flower beds, or even allowed the fancy of dance without critical intentions." 

The events of the day call for a clear sky with warm sunshine, however, there is an overcast sky, with heavy clouds swarming to pour over the fortress. It would be in benefit of the masses if it rained if crops were allowed to flourish, but the wheel of fortune has decided to spin the other way yet again. Dark shadows fall and torches are lit, but there is no sight of rain, only gloom. There are muffled sounds of joy trailing in through the window. She wonders if the importance these people give to royalty is well-deserved.

"A princess, little one, lives in ignorance. She is of little importance to the running of a fierce regime. She can be traded in turn for the smallest fraction of a treasury but a queen, she has to be forged of iron to be cast into a sword. Emolliency will only get you so far. To rightfully touch the throne, you must learn which throats are to be slit and which are to be kissed."

Irene nods, closing her eyes. A firm finger pushes against her lips, wet and she assumes it is colour, like that of blood and the fabric of her gown, always blood because the war is over but their dignity will forever remain in shambles.

"In essence, there is but a single rule. Protect your interests and protect those who have vested in your endeavours. There will come a time when your power will be absolute enough to hang every rascal by the neck, publicly. Until then, never loosen your grasp on your title as Queen."

By the door, a flame flickers before it dies, leaving behind the heavy scent of burning oils.

"Yes, Queen mother," Irene whispers her last words as a princess.

*

The bedsheets are pulled off with a rustle, falling to the floor before the maids pick it up and carefully run their fingers along the dry seams to fold it. It’s dirty — with sweat, spit, and semen — and they shouldn’t have to touch them, but being Queen means Irene has lost more power than she has acquired.

She stands on the podium in front of her mirrors, flushed skin reflected from all angles. The man they had recommended tonight had been brutal. She breathes heavily, tired, and unsatisfied. The man had a single duty, and it never instructed him to ensure she finds pleasure, it only told him to make certain her womb is proven fertile to clamp down the mouths of those who have taken to calling her barren. Heat continues to course through her body, her blood throbbing in places that should no longer be felt.

There are fingerprints seared into the flesh of her hips, otherwise pale and glistening, and there is a single scratch running past the further end of a collarbone. Irene takes in a deep breath till her chest expands, and holds. She is beautiful — _plenty beautiful_ , the words haunt her along with memories of a heavy crown digging into her scalp — enough to get away with remaining a spinster this long. The walls whisper as she strides past, of her string of unfaithful lovers, of blood shed in the confines of her arms, of souls that are caught between her nimble fingers only to explode. Each one is a lie but she cannot falsify any words carried by the wind because people ask for evidence, and she has nothing that will appease the hunger in their eyes.

The door closes in the distance and silence falls over her chamber. It is the end of another fruitless night, she thinks as her nails lightly rake over her abdomen, one that will bring another morning of arguments, of questions she doesn’t understand how to answer. Someday perhaps, she will seize whatever vague feeling has birthed within her, but that day is far.

She catches movement in the corner of her eyes and turns to see her personal attendant — sweet, lovely Wendy — standing with blushing cheeks and knuckles pressed to her mouth. 

"Your bath is ready, Your Majesty," she says, voice small and eyes failing to look away from the reflection. 

The curtains are drawn. There is no way for them to tell the time, but whenever a night is spent like this, with responsibility threatening to break her shoulders and pleasure she is convinced she cannot reach when all she has to do is spread her legs and wait to be ridiculed despite her status, her bath nears a few hours before the day is set to begin.

"Will you lend me a hand?" Irene asks, voice rough but small. The tips of her fingers flutter past her ribcage, lowering and lowering to where she throbs, unsatisfied. Wendy looks on with wide eyes — and from the distance, she looks like she is falling under a trance as if a fairy was casting charms to lure her into their bed — then wets her lips. Irene doesn't need to rely on magic for this. Everything falls into place together, with racing hearts and tongues that are desperate for the taste of a woman.

"Your Majesty…" She trails off, a faint pink settling in her cheeks, then nods frantically. How can anyone turn down the Queen? The thought sends a sharp bitterness through Irene's spine.

She doesn’t bother to pull on any garments, simply hums in acknowledgement, and steps down carefully, the marble chilled beneath her feet. When she walks over to the door, Wendy follows wordlessly.

*

When the sun rises, it comes with unkindness. 

In other kingdoms, the early morning sunshine is something to be basked in, to be prayed to, and to be prayed for. A warmth. A gentleness. It lightens up the world with hope for another day. However, when there is nothing to look forward to, the sun is no friend.

Tucked away in the circular corners of Braemunyth sleeps a hapless village — Aereth, they call it — with wooden stakes pitched into the ground — meaningless with the space between each, barely a fence — to demarcate boundaries. A village that houses the last of them all, of creatures that breathe magic but exist trapped in shells that look more human than some humans do.

There is no forgiveness for a reign that chastises the residents, and so they live alone, away from the streets that hustle to build themselves and stand in place of the ghosts of their ancestors. 

There hangs a wooden board where the first stake is placed. It says 'do not enter' but when have people ever listened to what they've been told. Over the last decade, rumours of mysterious fires have died to give way to little channels of trade. Instead of wandering with a silver knife men trudge across to have their futures predicted. Glass bells chime over the thresholds of fortune-tellers, and those with other interests — some like to heal the injured because compassion comes to them naturally, there are some others who have the tact to salvage ruined minds, even some who feed on libido and grant simpler wishes in turn — lock their doors at dawn, for they live under labels and society has labelled them as secrets to be sullied in the night.

Along a path strewn with twigs and leaves-long-dead, hides a wooden affair much smaller than any else in the settlement. It's a fair distance away, and only those who have been looking for it, specifically, know how to reach it without setting off the fizzling wards that surround it.

Water drips from a clay pot near the door, always ajar for no animal has the audacity to step close. The air is always moist because the owner prefers it that way. It hasn't rained well in nearly three seasons, the earth cracks, parched, and all grass has withered knowingly. In the silence of dawn, each movement sounds ten times louder. 

But today. Today, before the chirruping of the birds alerts the witch of daytime, she wakes up with a jolt. Visions flood her mind and they float past closed eyelids like the montage of a dying man's memories. 

Burnished gold. Torrential downpour. A castle too familiar. An infinite sizzle. A sallow face. Long, silky hair against linen and the dues of a man dripping past reddened thighs to no avail; blood, lots of blood, and the loss of life. Faint music and hushed conversations. A solitary figure clothed in a shroud. Heat. Flames. Massive flames, almost a conflagration, and hollow eyes, right in the centre of Braemunyth. A hill that falls apart and lips that round to take a name she can't hear.

A canister falls somewhere as she flails around, gathering her bearings but with difficulty. She slips off the thin mattress and slides along with her to the floor, thick sweat beading on her forehead.

Seulgi opens her eyes to a dim ceiling and a prophecy stuck in her throat.

*

Irene throws back her head. A slow moan heaves through her chest, loud in Wendy's ear, too loud, making heat rush through their bodies. 

The water has cooled considerably since Irene stepped foot into the stone tub. Darkened flower petals float over the surface, half-submerged, and a single rose petal sticks to the skin of her breast, the deep red providing a stark contrast against the pale pink taking over her. Her lips part in light gasps — she doesn't remember when she forgot how to be loud — as Wendy's silky flax-coloured hair brushes over her arm. 

Wendy refuses to look into her eyes and trains her gaze to the skin beneath the water. Her own fingers ache with the warm softness of Irene, her wrist aches with the precarious angle she bends over the tub's walls, however, she is in no place to complain. The water makes sounds, loud blubs and the smallest of waves as her hands form ripples through it. The blue of her skirt turns a dusty shade of navy as it soaks whatever has spilt over onto the marble floor. She feels her own breaths shorten, and the blood rushing to her ears almost deafens her, as Irene tightens around her.

A hand cards through her short hair, and Wendy allows herself to wonder for a second what it would feel like to be a man allowed into the Queen's embrace. If she were a man, she wouldn't have to kneel by a lady who looks like she's fallen from grace, she could be wrapped in silk and it would be her child the kingdom would anticipate. 

Although would the Queen keep her? Wendy fastens the thrust of her fingers, and Irene gasps louder, her neck on display. A single purple spot blooms where her neck meets her shoulder and it fills Wendy with a sudden wistfulness. 

She is better off as she is. She would be discarded without a second thought. The man who desecrated the royal bed last evening must be boasting of his lay, of the possibility that his child will be the heir, or he might as well be cowering in the darkness of his forgotten wife's bedroom. If the Queen were to not conceive — and Wendy hopes she doesn't, some cruel bone in her body is pleased that she cleans out the scum from such a beautiful body — the man would either be imprisoned or killed if he opens his mouth. 

Irene convulses once, twice, and then she relaxes. Her hold on Wendy's fingers doesn't loosen for a few minutes and the feel of blunt nails grazing against the ridges of the walls makes her want to pull Wendy into the bath with her, but she resists and thanks her.

There is a court meeting scheduled before lunch hour. It is a long day ahead.

*

"The royal Oracle is dead."

The announcement comes as a surprise. It isn't shocking, not when the Oracle had been of wiser years, but it does leave everyone taken aback because their demise happens untimely. They had predicted their own death to occur on a rainy day a few years down the line.

"How urgent is the matter? We shall prepare for their funeral, and it shall be held with the highest degree of respect," Irene says. 

The body has been dealt with and is on it's way to being prepared already, so it sets Irene at ease. There are many other tasks to deal with, especially those of the pending rains and the sewage system that has been broken in the closest city to the castle. 

"It is an issue because their predictions were proven false." This time, it is a short but prickly lady who speaks. A newer minister, if she recalls correctly, to finally replace the position of secondary advisor after Irene's grandaunt passed away. "If they were wrong about their death, they could have been wrong about you bearing children."

"Is that all that matters?" Irene questions, voice steely. The sheer fabric covering her hands makes her itch. "We have no time to discuss the mundane, there are actual people suffering the brunt of our mistakes in the cities." 

"Do you not think it is getting too late, Your Majesty?" The minister spits back, less venomous but like a snake nonetheless.

"Late for what exactly?"

"Soon, and please forgive my forwardness, you will have lived thirty major eclipses. That is a bother, Your Majesty. You have birthed no heir to the throne. You have men whimpering at your feet and all the time in the world — " Irene barely holds herself back from biting back with scratching words, " — why aren't you afraid of your mortality? All you do will be for nought if there is no one to carry it on. Your bloodline is sacred, we must urge you to preserve it."

The court falls silent; only the tapping of the coin minister's foot resounds in the hall. 

The maidservants and guards all stand with bated breath. Surely, they have their opinions, and for the first time since Irene has sat in court, she wonders if there is anyone in the hall who would be willing to listen to her with no preconceptions. 

There is an estranged branch family somewhere within Braemunyth, Irene is certain. If she dies — and the thought makes her tongue collapse and thoughts stop — there will be someone to take the throne. She looks into the documents spread out in front of her for a minute, taxes, unfair land usage, an alleged trespass filed by someone claiming to be a shaman, and finds herself unable to formulate a reply that satisfies her. Then again, she thinks, thoughts can be vindictive. She swallows thickly and speaks.

"It is, frankly, none of the people's concern. For all you may know," She bites her tongue for a second, lest the truth in her mind spills unbidden, and straightens her posture further, "I might be with child at this very moment. And I may not. My mortality is not your concern, only my crown is, dear Minister. Rest assured, things are all right."

And they have to be all right. Irene knows by the time this congregation is dissolved, she will be left with a dozen sharp states digging through her back. There will be arrangements to find her a husband — to chain her, to restrain her and who knows what ideals these power-hungry wedded women carry, do they want to be trampled beneath the feet of their inane husbands — and those of the court with wider mindsets will yet again ask her to try and conceive with a man in private. 

Who is to say her child will see the same horizons she has her eyes set on? If by a stroke of luck, she weds a man kind enough to understand independence, will she have to keep pretending that she isn't drawn in by the scent of a woman? 

"What about the Oracle?" Irene asks in an attempt to change the course of conversation.

"It is customary to have someone heading our spiritual court," Another minister sighs, "There is no other religious leader fitting enough and we have no other cathedrals."

A chandelier creaks overhead, then all the candles blow off.

"How difficult is it to find one? An Oracle?" Irene asks over the sound of footsteps rushing to close the windows. Most of them are already shut tight enough that not even the strongest soldiers would be able to open them without shattering the panes. 

"They're not… _made_ , Your Majesty. They say the previous Oracle was alive when they left, and that they had chosen a disciple. If one happens to be a seer of that acumen, they will have to be found."

*

Seulgi pulls on a long, black dress, the sort people wear for memorial services in winter. The fabric drags behind her and gathers the dust off her floor as she rummages through her belongings for a veil. When she finds one, she debates on whether she should cover her face or not. 

She fastens it into place nevertheless and takes a last glance at her small home before she leaves. There is an inkling in her gut that says she won't be coming back for a while, and she is dead certain it has to do with the Queen. She lifts up the protection wards with a continuous murmur. Then she closes the door gently, and chooses not to lock it. She doesn't own anything worth stealing.

She crosses over to the gates of the granary located a few minutes from Aereth, cloth shoes worn like slippers unable to keep the occasional twig from stinging her feet.

Leaves shiver as she walks by, intimidated by her aura. Seulgi catches the eye of a fellow witch through a dusty window, and they nod once in greeting. A few meters away from her destination, she catches a whiff of broken wheat, faint but dispersed throughout the air. She exhales heavily. 

There is no logical reason for her to do this.

She could merrily be on her own way, pack her life in Braemunyth in scraps of paper and sail across the high ocean. She could have water submerging her feet, or sweet fruits breaking in her palms from distant lands, or even sensual women falling apart under her touch. She could have much more. Yet, Seulgi approaches a guard — exhausted and dull, the kind that rolls all the way downhill only to stand in one place all afternoon — to tell him the one thing that sets everyone in the kingdom on edge. 

The bends of his knees and the slouch of his back vanish as she draws closer.

"Lady, what purpose do you have here?" He asks, miffed. A spear leans against the brick wall next to him, the tip gleaming.

"I have something to tell. But you must take it to the castle with you." She says.

"Madwoman, I work to protect our grain, not to act as messenger," He laughs, for a split-second, a dark expression crossing over his face. Seulgi surmises this must happen often, people asking for favours or trying to get into the castle through his employment. Poor fellow.

"You're calling me a madwoman?" _You heathen_ , she murmurs with a chuckle laced in her tone, "You won't call me mad if you knew what I know. And you wouldn't just take the news with you, you would drag me to the castle."

"And what, woman? What? I don't make the rules here, I can't ask a royal to have an audience with you."

The sounds from the granary cease, and then there is the tell-tale swish of a massive blade — a hatchet, she assumed — and the crunching of seeds. Seulgi looks around. The road is deserted and all workers are busy inside. There is no possibility of someone overhearing them.

"No, you can't," she says, the veil obscuring her view, "but you can spread the news."

"What is it — "

"I am the Oracle of Braemunyth, and I know your Queen is barren."

**Author's Note:**

> updates will be irregular, and will mostly depend on the response this fic gets because I have another ongoing long fic and uni has started.
> 
> have a lovely day ahead.
> 
> \---
> 
> Lower your Shoulders and Unclench your Jaw:
> 
> [Keep check of your Mental Health ](https://checkpoint.carrd.co/#)  
> [ChilledCow Lo-Fi](https://youtu.be/DWcJFNfaw9c)  
> \---  
> [ Keep in check with the pandemic ](https://www.who.int/emergencies/diseases/novel-coronavirus-2019)


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